Getting Over It
by Lilec Hamira Amdciez
Summary: After the whole Kate thing, a rather down Neal Caffrey decided to jump back in the game and forget. And what better place to do those things than at a bar? Almost slash. NOT Neal/Peter.


**_content edited as of April 14, 2011; no author's note added, warning untouched._**

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**Warning: This is an old, almost-slash oneshot with a Male OC that's over a thousand words long. Any problems with that, click the back button.**

If one was to ask Neal Caffrey what he did to unwind, one would most probably not be surprised with the answer (whether or not it was true) – harmless flirting at some nighttime hot spot or another. With his ten billion kilowatt smile and enough charisma to seduce a tyrannosaurus rex, it should be easy for him. Now, if one knew Neal Caffrey enough to know how convinced he had been about whose side Kate was on (but not how _that_ turned out), one would have been surprised to know that his flirting this night was not as harmless as he made it out to be.

Neal Caffrey was depressed, and what better place to get rid of depression than at a bar?

So, clothed in his regular ensemble, Neal Caffrey entered the bar, determined to take someone home with him. It should be easy; after all, who could resist some good old Neal Caffrey charm? With confidence practically oozing from every pore of his being, he approached the figure seated at the bar. In the dim light, all he could make out was the flannel shirt and short, choppy auburn hair.

"Hey there, gorgeous."

The bartender snickered and the figure swiveled the stool around lazily and said, "Sorry to disappoint, but I'm straight."

Oh crap. A guy. He was _really_ out of it if he couldn't tell the difference, even if it was from behind and the lighting was bad. Now instead of saying something he _knew_ would make this so much more awkward (and the list for this was so, so long), he simply flushed and flashed a little smile and said, "I knew that."

He laughed, "Sure you did."

Neal turns to the tender, who was still snickering, and orders himself a Long Island Iced Tea. He took a seat beside the redhead and sighed.

"Sorry," he said, "I'm like-" he made a face.

The redhead smirked and said, "What? Had a fight with your boyfriend?"

Neal gave a small laugh, "Nah, I'm straight."

For a longish moment, his companion paused, and Neal studied his face more clearly: although there were some slightly feminine features, he was distinctly male, and couldn't possibly be older than thirty.

Then he said, "So you thought I was a _girl_?"

Neal shoots him the most sincere apologetic look, which wasn't really all that apologetic, shrugged, and said, "Yeah."

The tender slid his drink over just as the redhead said, "Well, crap."

Once again he swiveled his stool and called out, "Hey, Steph!" really loudly.

Another redhead in the general direction he was calling rose and walked toward them.

"What?"

The young man takes out his wallet and handed her a fifty. "You win," he said.

She laughed and said, "Of course I do. I always win," before patting him on the shoulder and walking away.

Neal, who was watching this exchange with mild curiosity, asked "She your girlfriend?" before sipping his drink.

The redhead looked repulsed by the idea and coughs. "Hell no. Steph's my _sister_."

Neal shot him a disbelieving look, "You came to a bar with your sister?"

The redhead shrugged, "She's finally twenty-one." He took a swig of what Neal assumed was a scotch (the redhead seemed like a scotch person to him) and said, "What's your name anyway?"

"Neal Caffrey," he waits for a moment for a spark of recognition that didn't come before asking back, "You?"

"Alexander Maverick."

"So then, Alexander, what did you bet on?"

Even in the bar's terrible lighting, Neal saw Maverick – _Alexander, _he liked that more – flush. "It was stupid."

Neal shrugged, finishing off his Long Island. Maybe, he thought, he could try his hand at picking up a guy. It would definitely take his mind off of Kate, which was why he was here in the first place. What a shock he'd give everyone else.

"You done with that?" he motioned to the maybe-scotch, giving his practically irresistible raise of eyebrow.

"Just about," Alexander replied, finishing it off."

"You play chess?"

Alexander shrugged, "A bit."

Neal smiled (it's half-smirk, really) and said, "Play a round with me. I've been looking for a new opponent."

Alexander smiled back (he looks a little intoxicated, Neal noted, which is probably why he hasn't noticed this near-failure of a pick up), "All right, why not?"

They stood and Alexander picked up his jacket – denim, designer – from its resting place beside him and slipped it on.

A brief text message and walk later, Alexander Maverick was playing Neal Caffrey at the con artist's dining table. Alexander had lost a bishop and both knights and was in the process of taking Neal's queen when there was a knock on the door.

With a groan, Neal rose from his seat, calling out, "Peter! That better not be you!" and pulled the door open.

"Nope; it's me."

"Can't this wait 'til morning? I'm entertaining a guest."

Special Agent Peter Burke peered around his consultant at the young man seated at the table, toying with the queen he presumed belonged to said consultant.

"No, it can't. And who's he?"

"Guy I met at a bar; you interrupted our game. Are you sure this can't wait for daylight?"

"Yes."

With a resigned sigh, Neal turned back to his opponent.

"Sorry Alexander, I've got to cut our game short – duty calls."

Alexander stood and said, "It's all right."

Neal flashed him a smile and invited him to come around again Saturday evening so that they could finish up.

Alexander promptly agreed.

Once he and Peter were in Polite Speaking Range, the agent asked, "You an art thief, too?"

Alexander laughed. "No, psychoanalyst. Alexander Maverick."

"Peter Burke."

They shook hands and Maverick took his leave.

In the car, driving to whatever crime scene required their attention, Peter said, " 'Bout time you started seeing a therapist."


End file.
